While the giants of the magical world were busy discussing the weight of immortality and the encroaching darkness of a madman, Albert Anderson was busy doing what he did best: being a sponge.
The Alchemy gathering had proven to be a goldmine. In the plush, enchanted halls where the air was thick with the smell of expensive tobacco and the hum of high-level theory, Albert felt like a child in a candy store. But unlike most children, he wasn't just looking at the wrappers; he was dissecting the recipes.
The surge in his experience bar was almost intoxicating. Every time an elderly wizard offhandedly mentioned a nuance of metallic resonance or a shortcut for binding soul-imprints to inanimate objects, a notification would chime in the back of Albert's mind. It was a beautiful, rhythmic sound—the sound of progress.
To his surprise, he had become something of a local celebrity. These masters, who usually looked down on anyone under the age of eighty, were actively seeking him out. They offered him their owl addresses, invited him to private studies, and looked at him with a sort of predatory optimism.
When did I become the most popular guy in the room? Albert wondered as he politely tucked a business card made of pure silver into his pocket. I'm just a student. Are they really that desperate for a successor, or do they see me as a safe bet for the next century's breakthroughs?
Regardless of their motives, Albert wasn't one to turn down free knowledge. He currently found himself in a comfortable corner with Adolf, a wizard whose beard was so long it practically had its own zip code. Adolf was deep into a lecture on the structural integrity of enchanted glass, specifically the mechanics of the Two-Way Mirror.
In the wizarding world, the Two-Way Mirror wasn't exactly a secret, but it was a bit like a vintage luxury car—everyone knew they existed, but nobody seemed to be driving one anymore.
"I have to ask, Mr. Adolf," Albert said, waiting for the older man to take a breath and a sip of his tea. "If the principle behind these mirrors is so well-known, why are they basically extinct? I've checked the catalogs in Diagon Alley and even the high-end boutiques in Paris. You can't find a new pair for love or money."
Adolf let out a long, wheezing sigh, his eyes clouding with a bit of professional regret. "It's a sad story, Mr. Anderson. A classic tale of genius dying with the man. You see, the 'standard' for these mirrors was set by Brair Bulstrode centuries ago. He was a master who understood the marriage of Alchemy and Transfiguration better than anyone."
"So, it's a manufacturing bottleneck?" Albert guessed.
"More like a total collapse," Adolf corrected. "Many people understand the general theory. You take two surfaces, you bind them through a localized fold in space, and you use a permanent Transfiguration to maintain the link. But Bulstrode's mirrors... they were different. After he passed, the mirrors people tried to make were, frankly, garbage. They would flicker, the image would distort, or the magic would simply bleed out after a year or two. Eventually, the market just gave up. Why buy an expensive mirror that's going to turn into ordinary glass by next Christmas?"
Albert leaned in, his mind racing. "So the secret wasn't the Transfiguration itself, but how to make the charm 'permanent' without a continuous power source."
"Exactly," Adolf nodded, looking impressed. "Most wizards today are lazy. They want magic that works with a flick of a wand. But true Alchemy requires a foundation that lasts. Bulstrode's mirrors didn't have that 'leak' problem. To this day, the few surviving pairs from his era still work perfectly. But the technique? Dust in the wind."
Adolf gestured vaguely toward the window. "It's the way of things. Ancient crafts get replaced by faster, cheaper methods. It's like the Vanishing Cabinet. Once, they were the pinnacle of security and travel. Now? They're just oversized wardrobes collecting dust."
"With all due respect, sir," Albert said, his voice carrying a quiet confidence that made several nearby wizards pause their conversations, "I think the world has missed a massive trick here. You say the mirrors were phased out because they were 'inferior,' but look at the demand. I have friends at Hogwarts—half of them spend their weekends crying over parchment because they miss their families. A letter takes two days by owl, and it's just... flat. If I could give them a mirror where they could see their mother's face or talk to their girlfriend in real-time? That's not just a gadget. That's a necessity."
A few of the older wizards chuckled. One man, sitting a few feet away, shook his head. "Young love and homesickness, eh? We old men forget what it's like to have someone worth talking to every day."
"It's more than that," Albert pressed, his eyes bright. "Think about this gathering. If we all had linked mirrors, we wouldn't need to wait for a purple invitation once a year. We could brainstorm across continents. In the Muggle world, they're developing things called telephones. They're bulky and use wires, but they allow people to talk across cities instantly. Magic should be better than a wire. A mirror is a video call. It's presence. It's bringing people closer."
Adolf stared at Albert for a long moment, the amusement in his eyes replaced by a genuine spark of interest. He clapped his hands together, the sound echoing in the room.
"By Merlin, I think he's right. We've become rigid! We think because we can Apparate, we don't need to talk. But Apparition is for the body; communication is for the mind." Adolf leaned forward, grinning. "Tell you what, Mr. Anderson. I've got twenty years of failed research notes on Bulstrode's mirrors in my attic. If you're serious about this, I'll send them to you. Maybe a fresh pair of eyes—especially eyes as sharp as yours—can see the flaw I missed. Just promise me one thing: if you actually manage to pull it off, put my name in the footnotes of the manual!"
The room erupted in lighthearted laughter. Most of them thought it was a charming hobby for a gifted student, but Albert wasn't laughing.
A translucent screen flickered into existence in his peripheral vision, invisible to everyone else.
[New Quest Triggered: Lost Technology] Description: You have uncovered the history of the Two-Way Mirror and the lost techniques of Brair Bulstrode. The world thinks this technology is dead. Prove them wrong.Objective: Recover or reinvent the permanent binding technique and successfully manufacture a functional pair of Two-Way Mirrors.Reward: 10,000 Experience, 1 Skill Point, Two-Way Mirror Skill Level +1, Wizarding World Reputation +500.
Albert's heart skipped a beat. 10,000 experience? This wasn't just a "hobby" quest. This was a major milestone.
"Thank you, Mr. Adolf," Albert said, giving a polite, respectful bow. "I'll make sure your research doesn't go to waste."
The conversation drifted, as it often does among the elderly, to other 'lost' items. This was when the name of the Vanishing Cabinet came up again.
"So, what exactly is a Vanishing Cabinet?" Albert asked, tucking his previous thoughts into a mental folder for later. "Is it just a fancy Portkey?"
"Better," said a wizard named Smith, who had been listening in. "It's a bridge. Always in pairs. You step into one in London, you step out of the other in Edinburgh. No nausea, no Splinching, and most importantly, it can bypass almost any defensive ward that isn't specifically keyed to detect spatial anchors."
"It was the gold standard for escapes during the war with... well, you know who," Adolf added darkly. "If a family was under attack, they'd hop in the cabinet and end up in a safe house miles away. But the cost... Merlin's beard, the cost! Making the wood receptive to the spatial folds alone requires a forest's worth of rare timber and months of chanting. And if one cabinet gets a scratch? The whole link becomes a deathtrap. It's too expensive for a world at peace."
To the others, the Vanishing Cabinet was an obsolete relic—a relic of a darker time that was too pricey to maintain. To Albert, it sounded like a prototype for a permanent portal.
He thought about the Floo Network. Sure, it was cheap—two sickles for a scoop of powder—but it was dirty, restricted by the Ministry, and required a fireplace. The Vanishing Cabinet was a private, high-speed line.
Wizards are so focused on what's 'convenient' that they forget what's 'powerful,' Albert thought. They replaced the mirror with the owl and the cabinet with the fireplace. They traded high-fidelity for low-cost.